


Ready, Aim, Fire

by Pixiepeekboo



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellarke, Couple goals, F/M, Fluff, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23621848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixiepeekboo/pseuds/Pixiepeekboo
Summary: Bellamy arrives home after a day working at his internship to find a note from his girlfriend, Clarke, challenging him to a match. Loser has to cook dinner.
Relationships: Bellarke - Relationship
Kudos: 30





	Ready, Aim, Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! Just another little Bellarke dabble because this is one of those ships that I always end up coming back to; it doesn't matter how long it's been since I've been active in the fandom. They're one of my very favorites.  
> Also, Bellarke being cute is my weakness.  
> I hope you like it. ;) :)

“Meow,” said the kitten. She was a beautiful black tabby with green eyes. Perched precariously on the edge of the potted plant on the front porch, she directed the plaintive mew at the scrappy young man who skipped the steps entirely. Bellamy cooed at her. “Hello, Button,” he said, stooping to bump his nose with the kitten’s. A rattling purr was his reward, with a rough shove of her head back against his.  
“What are you doing out here, anyway?” he asked, touching the ribbon around her neck. There was a note attached to the end.  
First to score the other has to make dinner. I love you for infinity and hate you for eternity.  
The young man scrunched his nose, but his mouth tugged in a wry smile. “Is that the way it is?” he called, straightening from Button to look at the screen door. The inner door was propped open, and there was a large plastic gun on the floor, filled with foam pellets. Scooping the kitten up from the railing, he entered the house. He swung his bag to the floor and bent to grab the toy gun.  
“How long do I have? Are we – does it start now?” He glanced to the left, up the staircase leading to Clarke’s bedroom. The right branched off – one leading to the laundry room, the other leading to the kitchen.  
Thwack! An orange foam pellet zipped past the tip of his nose and boomeranged against the wall closet behind him. Bellamy cursed, clattering the gun up into his hands and snaking around the corner, Button still cradled in one hand. “Shouldn’t you be making dinner?” he asked. “I’m the one who was at the internship all day. Yipes!” Another pellet, this time barely grazing his ear on its way to the kitchen sink. He whipped around, trying to catch sight of her, but she was invisible. Laughing, he lowered the kitten to the floor. “You’re on your own,” he whispered, then sank down into a painful crouch as he moved around the kitchen to the second opening that led directly into the den.  
Clarke laughed, gleeful, hysterical – the kind that always made him start laughing, no matter how angry he was. It was childish and vengeful, the sort that he always imagined a sprite would do, in one of the Grimm’s Fairytales book she liked to read. He moved against the wall, partially hidden by the Grandfather clock and shielded from the kitchen. He listened; there was not a single sound, not of feet, anyway. Clarke’s feet were impossibly light. She might as well have been flying. He leaned back toward the doorway and caught sight of her creeping lightly around the corner.  
With only the element of surprise on his side, he charged her, and fired his shots. She dropped to her stomach on the floor, then slithering forward and caught his legs. He stumbled, and the gun went flying out of his hand, hitting the glass vase on top of the table. It knocked it right off. A moment later, it shattered against the tile floor, water and shards spraying across the kitchen. Clarke climbed him in a complicated move he’d come to recognize as her own particular magic of contortion and flexibility, and then she had him pinned beneath her. She pressed the nose of her gun to his head.  
“Bang,” she said, softly. Then she pulled the trigger and let the foam pellet thump against his forehead. He yanked the gun out of her hand and tossed it aside.  
“Why don’t you love me?” he asked, taking her other hand and clapping them both together between his.  
She smirked down at him. “I love you,” she said, “Well enough.”  
“I broke the vase. I am not sorry.”  
“That’s all right – wait.” She straightened from him. “Did you just tell me that you’re not sorry?”  
He dropped his head against the floor and canted his hips slightly against her. Just because he felt like it. She sank deeper against him, like a reflex, like she couldn’t help it. Satisfaction made him sigh.  
“I did.”  
She clucked her tongue. “You’re lucky,” she said, “that you’re so dang pretty.” She bent to kiss him. “What are you making for dinner?” she asked.


End file.
